


Return of the Lady

by pollykhaleesi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Lara Croft-Ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24668050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollykhaleesi/pseuds/pollykhaleesi
Summary: Lady Arya Stark has been missing for three years, travelling the world and using false names to get by. She ran away after a string of family catastrophes and hadn't looked back. Until now. Joffrey Baratheon is being crowned King of England in just over a week, and Arya has come home to support her sister at the coronation, after Sansa suffered greatly at his hands just years previously. Sansa has changed since Arya saw her however, and there is more to her than meets the eye. Arya intends to leave again as soon as she can, but her plans are thwarted when her knack for adventure and solving riddles lands her in trouble, and she runs into a handsome silversmith called Gendry, who seems to hate her on first sight. Conspiracy theories, ancient mysteries and high society collide as Arya attempts to find something that might just be best left hidden forever.
Relationships: Arianne Martell/Jon Snow, Arya Stark/Aegon VI Targaryen, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Joffrey Baratheon/Margaery Tyrell, Jojen Reed/Bran Stark, Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa Stark/Willas Tyrell
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

Sea spray filled Arya’s nostrils as she stepped up onto the top deck, blinking in the sudden bright sunlight. The white cliffs that signalled home were now fully visible ahead of her; they would be back soon. The thought terrified her, and warmed her heart at the same time. Home. Somewhere she hadn’t been in almost three years. She was almost unrecognisable from the scared and angry young woman that had fled years previously, with nothing but a bag full of possessions and a handful of cash. She still only had a single backpack full of possessions, and barely any cash, but other things had changed. She felt different, she _looked_ different. The girl that had left skinny and with close cropped brown hair had returned a woman with long tangled waves, pulled into a loose plait, bleached blonde at the ends from salt water and sunshine. Her skin was freckled and browned, and her arms and legs were now toned with muscles. She spoke with a lilted accent now as well, accidentally picked up from going years without speaking much English. Lady Arya Stark certainly didn’t _look_ much like a lady either, with black boots and a leather jacket that was sweltering in the heat, and a threadbare kanken rucksack that had seen much better days. She would be unrecognisable to anyone that didn’t know her very well, and that was fine with her. Her anonymity had served her well these past three years; and she couldn’t quite believe that she was about to throw it all away by coming back to the place she had fled all that time ago. But it was for good reason, she reminded herself as she slunk back below deck and towards her bike. Her sister needed her. And it was time to be Arya Stark once more.

A speed camera flashed as she made her way through the city, and Arya almost laughed as she zoomed round a final corner towards her destination. Good luck finding me, she thought, remembering the night she had stolen her current ride, just over a week ago in Italy. It _had_ belonged to a very good looking blonde Olympian; her current (or should she say, most recent) fling. He was a very handsome and charming young man, she’d had to admit, but family came first, and family had finally tracked her down. While he was in the shower one night, she’d grabbed her faithful backpack and a few essentials and left, snatching his keys as she’d gone. She doubted he’d care that much, he could afford a new one after all. And as for caring about her-well, she hadn’t even told him her real name. He’d get over it eventually.

The building that housed the Stark central offices faced out onto the Thames, looking muddy and cold as ever, even in the relative May heat. As she pulled up outside the embankment, Arya quickly took in her surroundings, something that was second nature to her now, after months of living on her own. The black brick structure was one of the most beautiful buildings in the otherwise dirty and ugly city, she thought. Gargoyles in the shape of Direwolves decorated the front façade, and the windows shot twenty stories into the sky. She hadn’t been here since her father was alive, and briefly wondered if his private office was still the way it had been that day. No, of course it wouldn’t be, she chastised herself. That was probably six years ago now. He hadn’t run the company for just as long, and someone else would have the highest room, now. Probably Sansa, she thought as she slammed her helmet down onto the seat of the bike rather forcefully. She blinked, surprised at her own strength, before she realised she was shaking slightly. Okay, maybe she _was_ more nervous than she had thought. Abandoning the motorbike, she walked up to the building and straight towards the front door, where she was ushered in by a bored looking doorman. Walking up to the front desk, she paused in front of the indifferent receptionist, unsure of what to do next. The idea to sneak in the building some other way had crossed her mind, but it had seemed disingenuous; the wrong thing to do, when returning home after several years unannounced. It might just give her poor sister a heart attack. The receptionist finally seemed to notice someone was there, and looked her up and down for a second before returning to her screen. Arya was suddenly very conscious that she hadn’t had a chance to have a wash in a few days, and was sweating under her heavy jacket. She unzipped it, feeling the cool air on her chest as the air conditioner fought the late spring heatwave.

“Couriers are meant to go round the back entrance, love.” She murmured and motioned to the side, chewing her gum. Arya blinked, then cleared her throat, realising she hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.

“I’m erm-I’m here to see … Lady Stark.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, no actually…I-”

“Name?” The receptionist sighed heavily.

“Arya.”

“Arya who?”

“Arya Stark.” The woman finally stopped chewing, and looked up at the youngest Lady Stark in front of her, with an expression caught between horror and awe. She looked as if she had seen a ghost; Arya supposed really she had. She’d been missing for three years without a reason. Gods only know what excuse Sansa had given for her complete absence from society. Within seconds she was given a visitors badge and an escort, and led up towards the penultimate floor of the building, towards a beautiful tall woman with long auburn hair and sparkling blue eyes. Sansa was crying as she smiled at Arya, and she smiled back gleefully, as she was accepted into her office, and away from the prying eyes that stared at her through glass dividers as she walked through the hallway. As soon as the door was closed, Arya was pulled into the tightest hug she’d ever experienced, barely able to draw breath as her ribcage was squeezed tight, inhaling breaths of her sisters flowery perfume, unchanged after all these years. She dreaded to think what she must smell like right now, but unusually Sansa didn’t make a comment about her appearance or odour just yet, content just to hug her and look at her for several minutes before either of them spoke.

“So… I got your letter…” Arya offered, wiping her own tears and sinking into a chair opposite Sansa’s huge dark wooden desk, smiling weakly at her sister who had taken her own seat once more. In the high backed leather office chair and black pantsuit, she looked every part the business woman, and still somehow every part the lady. She had dainty purple crystals hanging from her ears and neck, and her nails were neatly manicured and painted a pale mauve too, along with a single engagement ring on her wedding finger. She would have to ask about that, later. She knew Sansa was engaged to Willas Tyrell of course, most of the world with access to a newspaper or the internet knew that; but it would still be nice to hear the story from her sister, rather than the front page of The Telegraph. She’d already decided not to tell Sansa about any of her romantic interests over the time they’d been gone; she wouldn’t approve of any of them.

“Clearly, since you are here.” Sansa’s smile turned into a frown. “Do you know how long it took for me to _get_ that letter to you, Arya? You haven’t exactly been easy to find” She admonished, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah…sorry about that...”

“Three years. Three years you’ve been gone. No contact address, no mobile or email, no idea where you disappeared too! I hired _five_ different private investigators to find you! Five!”

“Well they clearly weren’t very _good_ , were they?”

“They were the best. You repeatedly made sure you were not found. It was incredibly selfish of you.”

She couldn’t exactly deny it for the single obvious reason that she had been missing for so long, but the way Sansa used such an accusing tone stung a little. Clearly, if Arya did not want to be found then there was no use sending _more_ people to look for her? It hadn’t exactly increased her desire to return home, and she had impressed even herself at the ease at which she hid from them towards the end. Arya looked sheepishly up at her sister, now definitely frowning at her. Her lips were pursed in a very good impersonation of their mother. The resemblance made her heart ache. Perhaps it was this that made her confession spill out of her.

“Sans, I just needed some space. After everything that happened…it was just…suffocating, here. I couldn’t cope. After we buried mum and Robb I just couldn’t go back home and carry on _again_. You had the stuff with the business, Rickon and Bran were still both studying, and you all had a purpose. I didn’t. I _never_ did. I never fit in with all the stuff you guys did. I’m not… I’m not cut out to be a lady.”

She had to stop there, as tears had threatened to overcome her and she had to focus on not blinking so they wouldn’t fall from her eyes. As she composed herself, Sansa made a quick call to her assistant, who was in the office seemingly within seconds. Arya shielded her face away from the assistant as he walked in and placed a large mug of hot chocolate and an equally huge lemon muffin on the desk in front of her. She mumbled a quick thank you, and reached for them both as soon as the door had closed, barely swallowing a chunk of cake before following it with a gulp of hot chocolate.

“Well, it’s definitely you, at least.” Sansa snickered. “I’ve never seen anyone except you eat like that. Like a feral animal.”

“Haven’t eaten all day.” Arya mumbled with her mouth full, as Sansa wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Clearly. How long are you going to be here for, Arya?”

Arya avoided the question, not sure of the answer. How long _was_ she going to stick around before she left again?

“What happens next then? It’s just over a week until the coronation, right?”

“Yes. Next Saturday” Sansa’s face hardened at mention of the coronation, and Arya felt slightly guilty, even though she knew she would have had to bring it up sometime. It was why she was back, after all. She had to support Sansa. There was no way she would be able to suffer through it alone. She wondered briefly if Willas knew about Sansa’s history with the soon-to-be king.

“He doesn’t.” Sansa said, reading Arya’s facial expression like a book. “I would never tell him. _Can’t_ ever tell him, anyway. We’d end up killed.” She finished darkly, scowling. Arya silently nodded, agreeing. They’d been threatened within an inch of their lives already; Sansa had been _beaten_ within an inch of her life already. If it wasn’t for their own high positions in English society, Arya would have been sure that they’d have been disposed of already, for fear of them speaking out against Prince Joffrey and his abuse of Sansa, and of countless other women as well, no doubt. It really was a criminal injustice that a massive shit like Joffrey Baratheon was about to become the King of England. Finally turning twenty five, and finally able to rule the country in his own right, he was due to take the crown the following week. Millions would watch on television, would cheer and praise the insufferable bastard and his beautiful wife Margaery Tyrell, not realising how cruel and sadistic their beautiful new King was. It made Arya’s blood boil just thinking about it. _That_ was why she had come home after all these years. She had to attend the ceremony with Sansa and the other lords and ladies, to be her person to lean on when her abuser walked past and leered at her. No one else would ever be allowed to know, the palace saw to that. And so it would be a secret between the two of them. It was the reason they had become so close finally, after years of tormenting each other as children and teenagers; the uniting force that made them friends was being tied up in a conspiracy against the king. It would have been exciting if it wasn’t so horrific for Sansa.

“I could still do it, you know.” Arya said, staring at her sister over the tabletop. It had been discussed many times, and shot down an equal amount.

“Don’t be ridiculous Arya; he’s going to be the King.”

“I know, but I’ve had a lot of time to think it over, and-”

“There is no way I’m going to let you rot in jail over that bastard, Arya. No matter how sweet it would be to see him die.” Sansa sighed, massaging her temples. “And we can’t lose anyone else in this family.”

Arya just nodded. There was silence for a short while as she sipped her hot chocolate, and Sansa stared at her desk.

“So…” She tried to steer the topic away slightly. “Where am I going to stay? Your place?”

“You really want to stay in London?” Sansa asked, surprised.

“Okay no, definitely not your place then. No offence…”

“None taken. I know you hate it here. We do need to think about shielding you from the public eye until we can come up with a story about where you’ve been all this time, though…”

“Why? I’ll just tell people the truth, if they ask!”

“And what exactly is that?”

“That I’ve been…travelling…”

“ _Travelling_? Is that what you call it? Arya, I bailed you out of a _prison_ in Iran not three months ago!”

“I was on an archaeological visit.”

“You were caught vandalising an ancient temple in Persepolis, if I recall…”

“Actually, it was the ‘Gate of All Nations’, not a temple. And as I tried to explain to the police, I wasn’t trying to _vandalise_ anything, I was trying to decipher the inscriptions along the top. They’ve never been fully translated and-”

“Okay, so you haven’t been travelling, you’ve been pretending to be Indiana Jones for three years?”

Arya sat silently, scowling at her sister, who was now leaning on her elbows, studying Arya like a small child she didn’t quite know what to do with. She didn’t suppose she would know what to do with herself, either.

“Since it’s such short notice we won’t be able to get you an apartment by yourself, I don’t think. You’ll have to make do with living with someone else for the time being. You could have at least responded to the letter, _warned_ me you were coming.”

“Sorry.”

Sansa ignored this empty apology.

“You can go to the flat in Cambridge.” She said suddenly, snapping into business mode. “Rickon is there too, he’s on study leave before his exams though so could do with someone keeping an eye on him. He’ll be happy to see you. Uncle Benjen is in the city too, running the offices there, but isn’t exactly a fantastic influence on him, I’ll be honest.”

Arya raised her eyebrow slightly. Sending Arya to stay with her wild younger brother and her equally wild uncle wasn’t exactly the calculated move that she expected Sansa to make. Whilst Eddard Stark had been known for his Lordly good behaviour, successful political career and sensible manner, his younger brother had been quite the opposite. Uncle Benjen was still a shareholder in the family business, but preferred to ride the horses and muck out the stables rather than oversee their training or visit the silver mines. He had been in the army as a young man, like many other Starks before him, but had left after being shot on a covert overseas mission, left in the frozen Tundra for days before anyone found him. He’d been slightly mad ever since.

“Where’s Bran?”

“On an archaeological dig in Greece. He won’t be back for a few weeks, at least. He said he intended to stay all summer so the flat in Oxford is being renovated. He’s doing his masters in September.”

“Impressive.”

“It is. Amazing, what you can achieve if you don’t drop out of university, isn’t it?” Sansa snarked, reaching over and taking a chunk out of Arya’s muffin with her fingers. Arya didn’t say anything, staring back at her sister in stony silence. She’d dropped out of university after her second year, after her father had died. She had never wanted to go back. Everyone just stared at her all the time anyway; she never made friends. It was hard enough to convince everyone that she hadn’t bought her way in, just by merit of being the daughter of a Lord. And then he’d gone and got made bloody Prime Minister and the whispers and staring got even worse. She wasn’t a friend to them, she was just someone to further their own careers, someone to point at and stare. It had been heartbreaking. She’d endured years of prep schools and posh classmates, only to get to university and be treated like an outcast by everyone who she’d much rather be friends with.

She didn’t need to tell Sansa that she’d learnt far more out of university than she ever could have attending it, however. The perfect businesswoman wouldn’t listen even if she tried. It wouldn’t matter to her that Arya could now speak several languages fluently, that she had solved historical puzzles that no one else had ever attempted before, or that she had survived on nothing more than her own wits and spare cash for the past few years. However well they got on now, the two women were still opposites when it came to ideals and interests. Sansa would expect her to turn into the perfect lady now she was home; she would be allowed to live in Cambridge if she wanted, but she’d still have to attend the balls, wear the dresses, and play her role as a Stark heiress. The thought made her shiver.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa eventually let Arya go, giving her a long searching look when her car pulled away, as if she half expected not to see her for another three years. She promised to come and visit her at the weekend, giving the excuse of a busy work schedule for the next two days. Her older sister had taken one look at the motorbike Arya had arrived on, and flat out refused to let her get back on it again, calling her personal driver and requesting that he ferry Arya around for the afternoon instead. Not wanting to cause a scene (and also not wanting to let on to Sansa that she was in possession of a stolen motorbike), Arya relented and allowed herself to be pushed towards the backseat of the sleek black vehicle. She looked very out of place among the shiny black leather seats and fresh interior, but then again, so did the driver. Sansa had called him a driver, anyway. He looked more like a soldier. He’d stepped out of the vehicle to open the door for her, and Arya could have sworn he almost reached seven feet tall. He was built like a bodybuilder, muscles showing even through his dark suit, and long brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. But the most interesting thing about the man by far had been his face; one side was completely burnt away, leaving a mess of scarred flesh and blackened skin. She had stared too long when she first saw it, she knew. The man had tried to conceal it in front of his employer but Arya could see a snarl forming as she threw herself into the back of the car, trying to hide her expression of surprise. Sansa could have bloody warned her, at least. He had hardly said a word to her the whole journey, except to bark an agreement when she asked if they could pull over for coffee. She wasn’t even thirsty; just bored out of her mind.

She had half a mind to make a run for it as she left the car, but sadly he had followed, like a gigantic looming shadow behind her. It wasn’t something she wanted to get used to; years of being alone and independent hadn’t left much room for companions, much less bodyguards, which is what she was beginning to suspect this man was to her right now.

“Erm… you want a coffee?” She asked, peering up at the man. He had dark sunglasses on, making it hard to read his expression.

“Black.” He grunted back, retreating to a safe distance while she ordered. Typical. She ordered a black coffee too, with a shot of vanilla to sweeten it slightly. Gods, she missed her morning espresso already. No one did coffee quite like the Italians. She made a mental note to find a decent place for coffee in Cambridge…maybe Rickon would know? Although from what she could remember of her younger brother, he never needed much encouragement to be hyperactive. From what Sansa had told her briefly about her brother now, it didn’t sound as though he had changed much either. The young barista raised her eyes at Arya as she swiped Sansa’s company card through the till, taking in her dishevelled appearance and mildly threatening companion. Not for the first time, Arya wondered how bad her body odour _really_ was.

She handed over the black coffee and walked back to the car, sliding into the passenger’s seat this time.

“Hound?” Her companion grumbled, taking in the name she had asked the barista to scrawl on his cup.

“I don’t know your name.”

“So you decided on _that_?”

“Well, you keep growling at me instead of using actual words, so…” Arya flashed him a grin and kicked off her boots as the car pulled away, putting her feet up on the pristine dashboard. He scowled at her, sunglasses now pushed back on his head. Now _this_ was more fun. Irritating her new bodyguard was far more entertaining than staring out of the window wishing she was back sipping a cold beer in Thailand, or Island hopping in Greece.

“Get your stinking fucking feet of the dashboard. If I crash, your knees will go right through your face.”

“Better not crash then.”

“Better not be a cheeky fucking git.” He scowled again, taking a sip of his coffee. He was putting on an impressively calm exterior despite the grumbling.

“Well _that_ was very rude. Do you talk to my sister like that?”

“Never.” He sipped again, an expression flashing across his mangled features so quickly that Arya couldn’t recognise it. “Your sister doesn’t act like a child.”

“I’m not acting like a child!” She retorted. He glanced over at her again, pointedly looking at her feet on the dashboard. Her socks were filthy.

“You’re certainly not acting like a lady, that’s for sure.” He made a hacking sound that Arya assumed was his version of a laugh.

“I’m not a lady, dickhead. I’m just pretending to be one again for a while, that’s all.”

The Hound raised his eyebrow slightly, but said nothing. The car was silent again, save only for the sounds of the engine and the occasional sipping of coffee. They were almost there. The familiar buildings loomed over them as the car pulled into the main thoroughfare, but Arya felt like a stranger in a city that she once knew so well. Like just another tourist in the masses that always flocked to the city at this time of year. They bustled past in the evening rush hour, obliviously unaware that Lady Arya Stark was sitting in the blacked-out car smoothly gliding past them; and for this she was glad. She didn’t want to be recognised. She probably wouldn’t be, she supposed; she had changed so much. She finally caught glimpse of the river and had a sudden urge to jump out of the car as it stopped at some traffic lights.

“I want to walk the rest of the way.” She said, hastily pulling her boots on and reaching for her backpack.

“Why? There’s hundreds of fucking people out there. Lady Sansa said you couldn’t be seen.”

“What Lady Stark doesn’t know won’t hurt her. And in any case, I don’t exactly look like a lady right now, do I? No one will notice me in that crowd.”

The Hound hesitated with his hand on the locking switch, clearly torn between wanting the irritating young lady out of his car, and not wanting to disobey orders from his employer.

“Look, I’ll be honest here mate. Either you let me out of this car now, or I’m going to kick up a fuss and try and escape out of the window anyway. And that will draw even _more_ attention.” Arya delivered her ultimatum, hand on her own window button. He faltered again, and so she ran for it, ripping open the handle and tearing off down the street before he could so much as grab at her backpack. He could follow her; of course, he would know exactly where the flat was. But she had to get there by herself. It was important, somehow. She had to return as Arya, not Lady Stark being chauffeured in by her bodyguard.

She sprinted towards the river, tearing past tourists and irritable rush hour traffic alike. Men in suits shouted as she shoved past them, knocking briefcases askew with her fervour. Finally reaching the waters’ edge she stopped, to catch her breath if nothing else. Underneath her jacket she was dripping with sweat, and so peeled it off, carrying it in one hand as she turned the corner, navigating the narrow streets with practiced ease. A few minutes of walking later and the Tower loomed up suddenly before her, deep red brick among the grey and white stones of the rest of the city. The Tower of the Hand was named after a Stark Lord dead hundreds of years, but for the life of her Arya could never remember why it was named as such. It wasn’t even particularly tall; the same height as the other buildings around it, but it was home away from home nonetheless. The building leant over the river slightly, meaning it had an unrivalled view of the clear waters below, and was far enough away from the centre of the city to avoid the hustle and bustle of tourists-and thankfully paparazzi also. Arya had spent her university years here, and many summers and holidays besides, when her parents had decided to spend some time away from Winterfell. The old Scottish castle never seemed to heat up, even in summer, and Arya had always preferred the manic city life to the lonely isolation of the Stark ancestral home. And it was much better than London, too. Sansa seemed to love it, but Arya thought the city always smelt of shit. And the people weren’t much better.

She had to knock. Sansa had provided her with a credit card, but no keys or phone. If Rickon wasn’t here then she was effectively homeless. And she’d just sprinted away from her ride. Thankfully the door opened sometime later, and Arya blinked in shock at the sight that met her eyes. A young man with a rumpled mop of auburn curly hair and with a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth stood in her way. He was topless, with a blanket draped around his shoulders like a cape, and a can of what looked suspiciously like cider in one hand. Arya burst into laughter and lunged forwards to pull her younger brother into a hug, but quickly jumped backwards again as he yelped in pain. Rickon ushered her inside and closed the door, before pulling her into a tight one armed hug again. She blinked back tears as her head barely brushed the shoulder of her younger brother.

“Fucking hell I’ve missed you Arya!” After repeating that she missed him too and squeezing him tightly, Arya paid more attention to the blanket strategically pulled about his shoulder, and the dirty bandage that it was hiding, wrapped across his chest.

“Rickon, what happened?”

“Promise me you won’t tell Sansa?” Rickon looked abashed, dropping his cigarette on the floor and carelessly stubbing it out with his toe.

“I promise…” She said slowly, watching as he shrugged off the blanket properly. It fell off, revealing that the bandage was actually holding a large wad of padding just below his shoulder blade.

“I got shot.”

“You got WHAT!?”

“Not like, by an actual person! Well, it was an actual person, obviously but…it was an accident.”

“Rickon how on _earth_ do you get shot by accident?” Arya started to reach up towards the padding but her brother drew back, taking a long drag from his can and walking backwards into the house. Arya dropped her jacket and bag and followed, barely having time to register the state that the house was in as she followed him through to the spacious lounge. She tripped over a pile of bottles as she stepped into the room.

“It was an arrow. Me and Wylla were practising one night and-”

“Wylla? You mean to say that little Wylla Manderly shot you with an _arrow_?!” Arya was incredulous now, still trying to get close enough to her younger brother to properly inspect the damage to his shoulder.

“She’s not _little_ Arya, she’s sixteen…”

“Yeah, and you’re an adult now, you should have known better than to be fucking about shooting arrows!”

“Says the sister who disappeared for three years without telling anyone.” Rickon glared at her, leaning back into an armchair with a wince.

The siblings sat in silence for a couple of minutes, sizing each other up and occasionally glaring at each other. Rickon continued to gulp from his beer as Arya surveyed the room slowly. Aside from the beer cans and bottles everywhere, pizza boxes and remnants of takeaways littered the floor, as well as cigarette butts and abandoned clothes. On the table closest to Arya, a rolled up banknote lay next to a small bag of white powder, and three arrows had pierced the wall next to the television. A picture of their great great grandfather hung above the fireplace, with a sock dangling from the top of the frame. Arya sighed. Upon closer inspection, Rickon didn’t look too great either. His hair was a mangy tangle of knotted curls, contrasting with his pasty skin and red-rimmed eyes. Dark circles hung underneath his Tully blue eyes, and the dirty bandages indicated to Arya that his wound probably wasn’t being looked after so well, either. Rickon seemed to have officially gone off the rails. She felt a rush of love for her younger brother.

“Where’s Benjen?” She spoke up finally. The absence of her uncle wasn’t something Sansa had mentioned, either.

“No idea.” Rickon grunted, standing up. Arya followed him into the kitchen and watched as he grabbed a beer from the fridge, handing one to her first.

“How long has he been gone?”

“Few weeks, now.”

“Did he say when he’d be back?”

“No.”

“That’s very irresponsible.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going round.” Arya had the decency to look ashamed as she sipped her beer silently. Realistically, she knew it wasn’t entirely her fault that Rickon had ended up like this. But it hadn’t exactly helped that she’d disappeared without so much of a goodbye, either. For the first time in a long while, she felt properly embarrassed. She’d spent so long wrapped up in her own life and problems that she hadn’t considered anyone else’s. Poor Rickon had lost their mother and father much younger than she had. And now his sole guardian had done a disappearing act, too.

“I’m guessing Sansa doesn’t know about any of this?” She gestured around the kitchen.

“You think I’d still be alive if she did?” He chuckled, and Arya couldn’t help but smile too, imagining the scandalised look on their sisters’ face if she realised that Rickon was blowing his inheritance money on beer and cocaine. She’d claim it wasn’t very lordly, probably.

“Well, no. She’d probably lock you in Winterfell until you turned twenty five. And you _certainly_ wouldn’t be allowed any visits from little Wylla Manderly.” He chuckled again at her dig, wincing as he leant back on the counter, accidentally putting weight on his shoulder. “Look, I was going to do a whole speech about how I’m really sorry I left and everything, but that can wait.” Rickon looked up at her sorrowfully.

“You’re going to tell Sansa, aren’t you?”

“No.” He raised an eyebrow, looking like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. “But only if you co-operate.”

“I can do that.”

“You’d better, or I’ll have to shoot you as well.” She smiled up at her younger brother. A lost soul, just like she was before. She could help him though, where no-one could help her. Where no one tried. “First of all, I’m going to have to look at that shoulder…”

Several hours later and the house was looking semi-presentable again. Thankfully the five-storey building had only been semi-destroyed up to the third floor by Rickon and his recent antics, so they’d only had to go up that far. Already flustered and dirty before she had arrived, Arya was a stinking, dripping mess once they had finished, smelling strongly of bleach and furniture polish. She disappeared upstairs to have a quick shower while Rickon mopped the floors one-handed, newly bandaged and with his arm in a sling of Arya’s own design. She had tactfully ignored the prying questions about her newfound medical expertise that shot her way as she cleaned, re-stitched and covered the wound. She would tell him her travel stories soon, but not yet. As she climbed into the shower though, she looked down at her body and could see the stories for herself, in private. On her left hip, the Sak Yant tattoo she had acquired in Thailand, the thin healed scar upon her ribs from the waif in Spain, and the wonky toes on her right foot from the close encounter in Cyprus. Many more small scars and tattoos covered her body in various places, most hidden under clothes and jewellery. All stories she promised herself she would share one day, but now wasn’t the time.

Hair damp and rapidly drying in the late spring heat, Arya opened and closed the drawers of her bedroom, rifling through clothes that had once belonged to her. Searching through the drawers felt invasive, like she was going through the possessions of a dead girl. Nothing seemed right. She turned to her battered backpack instead; pulling out the few items that she had brought with her. She put on underwear and a long black bralette that barely covered anything, showing off her toned arms and collarbones. Rickon’s room was more promising; she tugged a pair of dark football shorts on, pulling the strings tight around her waist so they didn’t slip down. The shorts felt silky in the night air and reached almost to her knees, emphasising how small she was compared to her younger but much taller brother. The night was still sweltering, she didn’t need anything else. She didn't need to dress up either, no one knew she was back yet; she had one more night of anonymity where she could dress as she wanted and do as she pleased. As long as Lord Rickon didn't attract too much attention, that was. She bounded downstairs to see her brother also changed and scrubbed clean, cigarette clamped between his teeth as he tugged on a pair of trainers. Clearly he didn't worry too much for getting noticed either. She wondered if he was just too drunk to care. 

“Those things will kill you.” Arya snarked, opening the door and stealing a cigarette for herself as she stepped outside. “Tormund’s?”

“Only the best for your homecoming meal.”

“Fab. It’s on Sansa.” She grinned, waving the company card around.


End file.
